“Not much; and give you a chance to get up a little rational explanation. Besides, we neither of us need explanations. We know what has been happening.”
“You mean you really doubt my feeling for you? No, Vincent, I still love you,” and her voice had a flute-like quality which, though it was without a trace of conviction, very few people who had ever heard it had resisted.
“I am aware of that,” said Vincent quietly.
She looked beautifully dazed.
“Yet this morning you spoke—as if—”
“But what is love such as yours worth? A man must be on the crest of the wave to keep it; otherwise it changes automatically into contempt. I don’t care about it, Adelaide. I can’t use it in a life like mine.”
She looked at him, and a dreamlike state began to come over her. She simply couldn’t believe in the state of mind of those sick-room days; she could never really, she thought, have been less passionately admiring than she was at that minute, yet the half-recollection confused her and kept her silent.
“Perhaps it’s vanity on my part,” he said, “but contempt like yours is something I could never forgive.”
“You would forgive me anything if you loved me.” Her tone was noble and sincere.
“Perhaps.”